The timber of his voice changed. It was deeper, rougher, and sparks of heat turned on like switches all along her pelvic floor. “A character in”—she stopped and cleared her throat—“one of Winona’s books has a lick-me tattoo on his…”

Jesus, do not say penis one more time. Suzanne let the sentence drift off.

“I see.”

He didn’t sound like he see’d at all. He sounded bemused and disbelieving and maybe even slightly intrigued. “And what’s your next decorative move?”

“I was just going to do a couple with blue balls.”

“Blue balls aren’t very funny, either.”

Suzanne could hear the wince in his voice loud and clear. She didn’t know if he was talking from experience or implying the current state of his testicles. Both thoughts led down unhelpful paths—like ways in which she could help him out of that predicament.

“You can take one if you like. I have more than enough, and they taste delicious if I do say so myself.”

“Thanks, but—” He held up his hands. “No thanks.”

She noticed his slight recoil and rolled her eyes at his macho bullshit. “It’s a cookie.”

He chuckled. “I know.”

Suzanne’s breath caught as his smile warmed his face and the vibrations from his low laughter enveloped her. “What?” She raised an eyebrow. “You think eating a cookie dick is going to make you gay?”

He laughed again. “Nope.”

None of the men—straight or gay—she knew in New York would think twice about eating a cookie shaped like a penis. They’d probably make crude, witty jokes that made her laugh as they munched.

“I’m just more of a female genitalia cookie kinda guy. You make any of them?”

“No. But pussy cookies would have been a good idea.” One she might have thought of had Grady not been on her mind so much. “Winona’s all about equal genitalia opportunity.”

He grinned and gave a little fist pump. “Viva la vulva.”

Suzanne blinked. Then she laughed. Viva la vulva? The man was full of surprises. It should have sounded ridiculous, something so feminist coming from a guy who pretty much represented one of the country’s last bastions of masculinity, but it didn’t. Her pulse tripped and she felt a little light-headed. How could she be so damn angry with this guy 50 percent of the time yet still want to climb all over him?

It had to be the surroundings. It had to be the fire crackling in the hearth and the Christmas tree lights blinking haphazardly and the carols. Add in the aromas of sugar and cinnamon and the wine that must be going to her head, and it was no wonder a shot of recklessness jettisoned into her system.